


Tartan Clad Conundrum

by YamiSnuffles



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Holy Water, M/M, Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), tartan thermos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 03:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20221033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamiSnuffles/pseuds/YamiSnuffles
Summary: Aziraphale gave Crowley the holy water he desired, only to leave the demon alone in his Bentley, telling him, "You go too fast." Crowley is left to ponder those words and the thermos that went with them.





	Tartan Clad Conundrum

There was a particular feeling Crowley got when he drove fast. Which was, of course, every time he drove. Going slow was both a waste of his time and of the Bentley's potential. If he believed in wasted potential, he never would have tempted Eve with that apple. The Bentley was full throttle potential. Every moment there was a choice to be made- go left, go right, stop, go, and on and on. Choice even cascaded off to those around him. There was only one right decision for any of them to make- they got out of his way or their fragile little lives came to an end- but it was up to them to make that choice. If a shiny bauble on the ground just happened to catch their eyes before they stepped out into their road in front of him, well, he was just giving them more options and appealing to their greed. If lanes seemed to grow miraculously wider or other cars all but hopped out of the way, it was simply because he wasn’t to be constrained by pathetic human limitations.Truly, it was all a proper demonic activity.

_ “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” _

His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles shone white through his skin. He smashed his foot down on the accelerator until London became a blur. The needle on the speedometer leapt upward until he heard a sloshing sound when he rounded a corner. Crowley’s eyebrows raised. He took his eyes off the road to find the source of the sound and only had a moment to revel in the thought of Aziraphale tutting at him for doing so when he saw it. Not the angel but wearing blasted tartan all the same. He slammed on the breaks. His arm shot out just in time to catch the thermos as it launched from the seat.

He was vaguely aware of screeching tires and blaring car horns above the wild drumbeat of his heart. His hand was shaking so much he was forced to put the thermos back on the seat for fear of dropping it, which wouldn’t do at all. Not that it would break open from such a fall but because Aziraphale had given it to him and… and…

Crowley hissed out a string of curses and grabbed the thermos with one hand while the other jerked the door open. It was pure coincidence that he was outside his building. He hadn’t driven with any intent beyond going too fast to think of anything beyond, well, going  _ too fast _ . Perhaps he was there simply because he wanted to be. He certainly didn’t want to be at a particular bookshop with a particular angel, asking him, “ _ Why _ ?” until he didn’t have a voice left to ask.

“Ssix thousssand yearssssss,” he groaned, his voice growing sibilant and rising enough to get the attention of a few passersby.

Those who dared swivel their necks were chased off with a glare. Even hidden behind sunglasses, not many humans could stand their ground with a pair of demonic eyes planted on them. Crowley slammed the door to the Bentley behind him and vacillated between holding the thermos like a baby and a bomb as he walked inside. By the time he got up to the flat, his right hand was shaking so much he had to use the left to still it. He went to slam down the thermos on the table in what passed for his office, only to stop a moment before potentially disastrous impact and place it more reverentially. As soon as it touched the surface of the table, he skittered back a step or two. He stalked around it, giving it such a wide berth that it was impossible to tell which was the predator and which the prey.

Crowley fell gracelessly into his chair and tucked his hands under his arms. He was coiled tight, ready to strike. Problem was, there was nothing to strike at, so he coiled in on himself tighter and tighter until his muscles ached from it. It would be better if he put the thermos in the safe that had conveniently sprung into existence the moment he’d pulled up in the Bentley. It was there, just behind him. Not that he had looked at a single thing other than the thermos since entering the flat but he knew. He knew it every bit as much as he knew he was going to do no such thing. He was going to leave the thermos right where it was and stare.

In order to do the job right, he flung his sunglasses aside. They clattered to the ground somewhere in the distance. Not that it mattered. The only thing that mattered was a tartan clad conundrum.

Crowley let the tension unspool from his limbs, leaving him limp. He cushioned his chin on his arms so that his eyes were level with thermos. He couldn’t bring himself to look away, not entirely, but he blinked rapidly, half convinced that it would vanish if he stopped looking. Of course it didn’t. It remained exactly where he’d placed it being… ineffable.

What had changed in the last hundred and five years? Was it just repayment for some odd favor? Or because Crowley was going to steal it anyway? Maybe the angel hadn’t liked the idea of him stealing from a church. But, no, that couldn’t be it. Aziraphale had hardly had an issue with him blowing one to bits, so long as his books hadn’t joined the church in its destruction.

He rolled various explanations over in his head but nothing felt right. He was reaching for the sake of reaching, aiming wide because he wasn’t sure if he could handle grasping the truth. Love for an angel he’d long since decided was like holy water- it threatened to consume him until only it remained. If that angel were to… if  _ Aziraphale  _ were to return that…

Crowley picked up his head so that he could rake his fingers through his hair and across his scalp. He tugged, tilting his head up. He saw beyond his night dark ceiling, beyond the clouds and the stars above, to something he could no longer rightly see. Not ever.

“Wasn’t one fall enough for you? Had to let me fall again, did you?”

There was no answer. There never was and never would be. Not unless you counted Aziraphale and if the Principality was meant as some sort of answer to Crowley’s prayers, Her plan really was ineffable. The more time Crowley spent with Aziraphale, the more questions he had. Six millenia meant he was nearly drowning in them. What sort of angel up and gave his flaming sword away to a couple of humans? What sort of angel treated every meal like a sacrament? What sort of angel wiggled in delight? What sort of angel spoke with a demon? Laughed with a demon? Gave a demon holy water?

Crowley started to reach for the thermos, not even aware he was doing so, and pulled up short with unintelligible noises burbling up from his throat when he caught himself in the act. He felt if he could only look at the holy water, he might be able to make himself believe. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Aziraphale; he trusted the angel with absolutely everything he was. That was precisely why he’d asked him for the holy water in the first place. There wasn’t another being in all of existence that he would have trusted with such a request. What he hadn’t accounted for was a thermos that passed from trembling hands to trembling hands, for promises of picnics or a meal at the Ritz, and especially not for going too fast.

It could have just been about his driving. It certainly would have been easier for him to pretend it was. He’d ridden with Aziraphale enough times now to know the angel wasn’t fond of the way he hurtled down the road. However, you didn’t go and say something like  _ that-  _ with  _ that  _ tone of voice and  _ that  _ look- and intend for it to be a commentary on driving. Which wasn’t to say Crowley wouldn’t wait as long as Aziraphale needed. He would wait until the end of the world and beyond, if need be. Still, after so many millenia, he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to go any slower, especially now that he had real hope for the first time since the Beginning.

He put his hand on the thermos cap. He shouldn’t, really shouldn’t, but he did it anyway. Had he been less painfully aware of everything he did at the moment, he might have thought he’d accidentally frozen time for the way everything suddenly became excruciatingly still. Aziraphale had given over a part of himself. Crowley could feel the holiness of it radiating like a star, and he should know, having had a hand in their creation. He didn’t pull it any closer, didn’t do anything really, beyond hold on to it. 

_ “Don’t go unscrewing the cap.” _

“Ngk.”

Crowley’s hand shot back immediately, as though he’d been burned. His breathing became ragged and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He wanted more than anything to talk to Aziraphale about all this. By Go- Sa-  _ somebody _ ! He had to know if Aziraphale really felt what Crowley thought, hoped, dared believe the angel felt. Unfortunately, such a discussion was also the absolute last thing he wanted. That would entail him admitting to six thousand years worth of feelings because even if Aziraphale suspected something, he couldn’t possibly know how long it had been eating away at Crowley. If he did, the word “fast” would never have passed the angel’s lips.

Crowley all but jumped up to his feet. He would have to lock the thermos away, for safe keeping and to stop himself obsessing over it, but that could wait. For now he was going to sleep. If he was lucky, another century long nap would find him. Not believing in his own luck, he knew he’d only sleep until morning and that only because he was such a determined sleeper. Maybe the morning would bring answers. Optimistic though he might be at his core, he also knew a thing or two about belief and he knew he absolutely did not believe he’d ever understand why Aziraphale had chosen to give over even one small, thermos shaped part of his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my own bit of art on the matter because there aren't enough ways in the world to get through the feelings that scene inspired: https://yamisnuffles.tumblr.com/post/186734409961/i-felt-like-some-angst-so-heres-crowley


End file.
